On the Shore, a Wanderer
by Pyrephox
Summary: A young, Valdemaran noble, Byron, learns that some knowledge is forbidden for a very good reason. *Chapter Six* Wherein Byron learns rather more than he intended to, and events come to their climax.
1. Chapter One

Author's Note: Darn it. I write a story to get Tatya's drilling little voice out of my head, and what happens? Someone else moves right on in. In this case, Herald Byron, from "Identity Crisis". I also plan to eventually write out the story of Rhys' adventure on the Karsite border, but that'll have to wait. I also want to revise Identity Crisis, which has a few vital errors in it that need correcting...ah, well.  
  
If you haven't read Identity Crisis, don't worry. This story takes place way before it, and no previous knowledge is necessary. However, you should know that in this set of stories, nothing after Oathbreakers takes place. None of the characters from any book after that exist, either. Sorry.  
  
On the Shore, a Wanderer Chapter One  
  
"There is an eye which could not brook A moment on that grave to look." - George Gordon  
  
* * *  
  
The air in the Beckworth family temple was flat and damp, smelling faintly of mold and more strongly of the scented beeswax of the candles that filled the echoing room with furtive light. In the light of full day, it would probably have been pleasant to see the stained glass windows throwing their gay colors against the rich velvets of the cushions on the pews, and painting the white marble altar with a rainbow. In the evening, however, the dying light lay like bloodstains on the floor, and only shadows caressed the altar. And the oaken coffin that rested there.  
  
Marius, Lord Beckworth, stood at the door of the chapel, and looked within. His expression was bleak, and more than the evening darkened his face. As he debated whether to go forward, or withdraw, his thumb worried at the wedding band on his finger, and his eyes never left the small, wretched figure sitting alone on the pew closest to the coffin. Mother Avi had said the boy just needed time to come to grips with what had happened. But Marius had seen the peculiar look in his son's eyes at the service, and although he didn't understand it, it frightened him nonetheless.  
  
He moved down the aisle, conscious both of the extra care he was taking not to disturb the hush of the temple, and of the absurdity of such care. No one who bothered about such things would hear him now. Still, he was almost silent as he came abreast of his young son, and sat on the pew beside him. Byron did not acknowledge his presence by even a flicker of an eyelid. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on the coffin. His expression was abstracted, and his grey-green eyes ("like dusty emeralds," Mary had once said, laughing and tapping the infant on the tip of the nose while Marius looked on proudly) studied the grain of the wood as if he could see through it, to the body within. He looked much older than his six years.  
  
"Son," Marius began, and then stopped. What could he possibly say? He was a quiet man, given to introspection and companionable silences. Mary had been the poet, the woman with the Bardic Gift who'd given up her travels to remain with him and bring joy and song to their people. Without her, he had no words to express grief to a child. Or even to himself.  
  
"Papa," Byron said. Marius shook himself, and realized that while he'd been musing on his own grief, his son had turned to look up at him with those solemn eyes.  
  
He cleared his throat, and blinked away a sudden wetness from his eyes. "Yes, Bree?"  
  
"Why did Mama die?" Marius knew that he wasn't asking for the mechanics of the accident. He'd gone over that with Byron himself. No, this was the unanswerable question, the eternal why. The question Marius, himself, asked every night that he lay down in a bed that seemed too empty to bear. He'd only ever come up with one question.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Byron nodded, and his small, pale hand crept across his lap to clasp his father's large one. Marius took the hand in a grip that, under other circumstances, would have been too tight. Now, neither noticed, except to be grateful for the reassuring pressure. Byron turned back to the coffin, and after a while, he nodded to himself.  
  
"One day," he said softly, "I'll find out. I'll find out everything, and tell you. Okay, Papa?"  
  
"Okay, son." This time, not even furious blinking could stop the two tears that ran silently down Marius' cheeks.  
  
* * *  
  
The door to the Seneschal's office opened, and as Annice looked up, astonished, from her paperwork, a woman just a little younger than herself darted inside and closed the door with bang. The visitor, the bright green robes of a Healer swirling around her, leaned against the door and looked down at Annice with equal parts merriment and frustration. "Sorry, Annice, but I desperately needed a hiding place."  
  
Annice's brow furrowed. "From who, Maud?"  
  
"Byron!" At the Seneschal's blank look, the Healer breathed a frustrated sigh. "I swear, Annice, do you *leave* this office? Ever?"  
  
"Of course I do, but there's so much work to be done." She shrugged. "Before he died, I'm afraid that Zakary was too ill to do much of it, and there's such a backlog..." Maud was tapping her foot and Annice smiled ruefully. "But you obviously didn't come here to hear about my problems. Please," she gestured at a paper-stacked chair, "have a seat, and tell me all about it."  
  
"Thank you," Maud said, as graciously as if she hadn't been throwing meaningful looks in that direction since she'd entered. She carefully lifted the tower of papers and added it to another stack, ignoring Annice's subtle wince. "To answer your woefully ignorant question, sister-mine, Byron is the heir to the estate of Beckworth, and has obviously been sent by the gods themselves to test the patience of our poor, mortal souls!"  
  
"Why haven't the Guards done something with him, or is that what you're coming to see me about? Because I could probably have him sent packing, if not charged outright."  
  
Maud looked at her sister blankly, then began to laugh great, whooping guffaws. By this time Annice was deeply confused, and not a little bit annoyed. She scowled at Maud until the other woman got her outburst back under control, and then raised her eyebrow. She wasn't going to ask, she promised herself. Every time her younger sister baited her into asking something, it ended up being something she'd rather not know. So she sat perfectly still, with her face in the expression of hypnotic, icy calm that had caused one of the more unwise Bardic students to dub her with the title of Lady Colddrake, in her own trainee days.  
  
Maud, immune to the look that had been known to send Heralds twice Annice's age scurrying for cover, continued to laugh. "Oh, Havens," she finally gasped, wiping her eyes, "Byron's not like *that*. I can't imagine the boy ever lifting a hand to harm a living soul. No, he uses a weapon more terrible than mere force, my sister. More terrible by far." Maud shuddered melodramatically.  
  
"I'm not going to ask."  
  
Maud pouted, and sniffled at her. Annice looked down at her paperwork to hide her grin. Nobody would believe her if she said that, in private, the dignified and refined Healer Emeraud, the pride of the Healer's Collegium, became an adolescent capable of such overblown drama that a Bard would weep in envy. But she *still* wasn't going to ask.  
  
"Oh, fine, Annice. Spoil my fun, if you must. Byron, since you didn't ask, is a very fine boy. Polite, witty at times, gentle, and bright. Very bright. And curious. Gods help us all. It's like someone took a barrel full of cats and poured it into his brain...he doesn't know when to *stop* asking questions. And in his own, very innocent, way, he seems to believe that he instructors exist solely to quench his insatiable thirst for esoterica!" Maud threw her hands up into the air.  
  
Annice's mouth twitched. "Well, don't you? I mean," she lifted an eyebrow, "the purpose of the Collegium *is* to educate the students, correct?"  
  
Maud leveled a glare at her that should have peeled the ink off of the nearby papers. "He cornered Maxie and I the other day. In the *bathhouse*. To talk," she said with an air of exquisite finality, "about the root structure of sedgegrass!" As Annice began to chuckle, Maud said darkly, "Annice, we were rather emphatically otherwise engaged...and this is *not* funny!"  
  
"Yes, it is," Annice gasped between laughs, "It really is. Weren't you saying just last year that you wished you had *one* student that actually listened to what you said? Well," she spread her hands wide, "wish granted."  
  
"You are a cruel, cruel woman. How did you bribe that poor Companion of yours to pretend to Choose you?"  
  
"Oh, I'd never resort to bribes." Annice's eyes twinkled wickedly, but her voice had regained its hint of reserve. "It was blackmail, of course."  
  
Maud snorted, and bounced up out of her chair. "Of course. I imagine that the Bottomless Question Pit has moved on to some other poor target, so I'll be on my way before you corrupt me with your wicked ways." As she crossed to the door, she looked back. "Are we still on for tomorrow? You missed last week."  
  
Annice sighed. "I don't know, Maud. I'd like to, but..." the wave of her hand took in the mounds of documents. At the look on her sister's face, she mustered a weak smile. "I'll try, yes?"  
  
"You do that. Maxie is threatening to come in with her troop and dig you out of this avalanche, otherwise."  
  
The sisters shared another smile, and then Maud left, closing the door behind her with her usual enthusiastic slam. It was no coincidence that the Palace staff had had to replace the door to Maud and Maxie's quarters twice in the past five years. Although, it did always come as a surprise to the carpenter that it was the slender Healer that was the culprit, and not her hawkish, Captain of the Palace Guard lover.  
  
"Byron," Annice mused out loud. "Maybe I should see if the Heraldic instructors are having the same...problems with the boy."  
  
*They are,* Doric said in his Chosen's mind, *and it's not just the Heralds. Byron is one young man who has no problem believing that Companions are people. And he's very...patient.* There was a suggestion of an edge in Doric's voice; for Annice's normally cheerful Companion, this was the equivalent of one of Maud's screaming fits.  
  
"I think I'd better see about this."  
  
* * *  
  
Byron sat on the fence that marked the edge of Companion's Field, staring over the rolling green of the plain with a distant look in his eyes. On the other end of the field were the Companions, conspicuously avoiding the area around him. He sighed, and brushed his wispy, brown hair out of his eyes. The motion was so familiar to him that he no longer had to think about it.  
  
The instructors were avoiding him, ever since the Bathhouse Incident. He hadn't realized that Healer Emeraud wasn't alone, and certainly not that she was...occupied. Although, if he'd been thinking about something other than the book he'd just finished, he'd probably have realized that it would be better to wait for her outside the bath. Even the memory brought a furious blush to his cheeks. He hadn't even realized that two women could do that. It was obvious that a vital part of his research had been woefully neglected. And it was a lot more interesting than sedgegrass. For a moment, he wondered if they would be open to a few questions, then dismissed it. All and sundry had made it quite clear that his questions were not appreciated. "Why doesn't anyone understand?" he asked the universe in general.  
  
He nearly fell off his perch when the Universe answered back, "Because if they did, life would be boring, wouldn't it?"  
  
The young man in Grays raised his eyebrows as Byron yelped and twisted around to face him. "I'm sorry," the newcomer said, "I thought you heard me come up."  
  
"N-no problem." Byron clambered down from the rail. "It was about time for me to go to my next class, anyway."  
  
"Hey, I didn't mean to run you off." The Heraldic Trainee gave him a friendly grin. He was apparently one of the few who hadn't been warned off already.  
  
"It's okay. I have to go, like I said."  
  
"Well, before you go, we should introduce ourselves, right?" The Trainee stuck out his hand. "I'm Rhys. I just got here a week or so ago."  
  
Byron smiled, letting the other's good-natured air wash away his melancholy, and shook the offered hand. "Byron. I've been here about three months. Um," he shuffled his feet, "if you need directions or something, I'll be glad to help."  
  
They finished the handshake, and Rhys used the hand to wave at a Companion who had detached himself from the herd and was heading their way. He looked back at Byron and winked. "I've no doubt I'll need it. And, as unlikely as it may be, if I can help you with anything, just let me know."  
  
"Really?" Byron brightened. "Actually, there is one question..." About that time, the bells began to toil, calling students to the next candlemark's classes. Byron fought the unmannerly urge to curse. "Sorry, I've really got to go. Some other time, maybe?"  
  
Rhys shrugged, and began to stroke his blissful Companion. "Sure, anytime. Just run me down, or tell Faniel here, and he'll relay it."  
  
"I'll do that!" With that last, enthusiastic remark, Byron snatched up his pack full of books and headed for the Collegium at a run. Rhys watched him go with a twinkle in his blue eyes, and turned to Faniel.  
  
"Huh. The others said that the Blues could be pains in the ass, but he seems a good enough sort. Byron." His smile widened. "My first non-Herald friend in Haven, maybe." 


	2. Chapter Two

On the Shore, a Wanderer  
Chapter Two  
  
"And all hearts were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light."  
-George Gordon  
  
* * *  
  
A fortnight after they met, Byron was carefully tearing apart a rose from one of the gardens when Rhys' shadow fell across him. Without looking at the looming Herald Trainee, he waved Rhys to the side. "You're blocking my light."  
  
Rhys shuffled to the side obediently, then crouched down to get a closer look at Byron's work. "Is this for that herb class you're taking?"  
  
"Hmm?" Byron made a careful notation of the length of the petal he had just plucked from the rose, then put flower and pen down. He squinted up at Rhys. "Oh, no," he said. "Although it was inspired by our last lecture. I was curious to see exactly what characteristics were passed down through generations of flowers. I chose roses because the Palace gardeners have excellent records on them."  
  
"Oh." Rhys looked blank. "Why does it matter?"  
  
It was Byron's turn to look blank. It wasn't that the question was unfamiliar; on the contrary, people had been asking him variations on it for years. But he still didn't know how to answer in a way that they would understand. Sometimes he thought that other people didn't understand *anything*. At least Rhys hadn't sounded disdainful, just curious. Byron shrugged. "I just want to know."  
  
Rhys smiled. "That's an excellent reason." He seemed sincere, Byron thought, but he still felt embarrassed.   
  
"It's nothing, really." He closed his notebook, dropped it into his bag, and then swept the bench clear of the remains of the rose. "What brings you here?"  
  
"My feet."  
  
Byron snickered. "You have a base sense of humor, Trainee."  
  
"Hey," Rhys said with wounded innocence, "you're the one who laughed."  
  
"I was brought up in polite society. That means laughing at even bad jokes."   
  
"Well, then, we'll get along just fine," Rhys mused as he stood and offered Byron his hand. "I've always wanted someone to laugh at my bad jokes. I've got a million of them."  
  
Byron groaned theatrically. "I feared that you'd say that. You know, you could always try to use that wasted space in your head for more relevant knowledge."  
  
"A bad joke is *always* relevant," Rhys said with a sniff. "And what would you suggest as being relevant, the petal lengths of roses?"  
  
Byron clutched his hand to his heart and reeled as if struck. "A hit, good sir! I am struck through the core by your masterful aim!" He made a gagging sound, closed his eyes, and collapsed at Rhys' feet. Rhys looked down on him with a peculiar expression on his face.  
  
"So, it seems I've discovered your dark secret, my lord."  
  
Byron opened one eye, and peered at the grey-clad legs in front of him. "I don't *have* a dark secret. I'm really quite boring."  
  
"Nonsense. You have a secret, and I know what it is."  
  
Byron opened the other eye, and rolled to look up. "Well, out with it, man. I'm dying of curiosity here." He gave his best impression of a death rattle to emphasize his point.  
  
"Your dark secret," Rhys thundered and pointed an imperious finger downward, "is that beneath that studious scholar's facade beats the heart of a...bad actor!"  
  
"I am discovered!" Byron rolled away and clutched his face in his hand, the picture of abject despair. "The tragedy! The horror!"  
  
"The utter insincerity," Rhys continued blandly. When Byron grinned at him, he put his hand over his heart. "I swear, your secret is safe with me."  
  
Byron jumped to his feet, and brushed the grass from his knees. "My thanks." The knees of his light blue trousers were now decorated with a few smears of bright green. "Ugh. I can't go to supper like this."  
  
"You eat dinner with the Court?"   
  
Byron looked up at the faint note of censure in his friend's voice. "Usually, yes. Why, does that upset you?"  
  
"No, not really." Rhys said, but his gaze wandered away from Byron, to rest on an inoffensive shrub nearby. "It's just that, well, don't you find them rather shallow?"  
  
Byron took a breath, and tried to consider the question without letting his sudden flash of anger show. "No, not really. They talk about what's important to them. Everyone does." Even the oh-so-pure Heralds, he wanted to add. The few acquaintances he'd made among the other scholars seemed to be constantly needling him about his noble birth, even while the nobles looked down on him for associating with commoners. It hurt to get more of the same from Rhys. "We nobles are necessary to the running of the country, too, you know," he snapped, "it's not all parties and pastries, and we're not all snobs."  
  
"I know, Bree," Rhys tried to placate him, "It's just that they don't seem to *care* about..."  
  
"How would you know?" Byron cut him off with a slash of his hand. "It's not like any of the Heralds really try to get to know us, or try to understand things from *our* position. You judge us, just because we're not as eager to get killed as you are. You're...you're always just meddling without regard for the dignity of our station." Byron heard what he was saying, and froze in shock. He didn't mean it; in fact, he'd been parroting one of his cousins, a woman that he normally found repugnant. He went to apologize, but the look on Rhys' face stopped the words in his throat.  
  
"Meddling? Heralds don't meddle, we help!" Rhys snatched up his bag, his cheeks aflame with color. "Fine, then, *my lord*, this Herald will stop *meddling* in your affairs. I wouldn't want to bruise the dignity of your station!" He spun around on his toe, and marched out of the garden, his back straight and stiff.  
  
"No, Rhys, wait! I didn't mean..." Rhys was gone. What had he done? He hadn't meant it...but Rhys shouldn't have started that tired old line, either. Byron let the slow burn of anger cover over the shame around his heart. Maybe Rhys had just been looking for a reason to end their friendship. What had he expected Byron to do, just turn on the people he'd known since he was a baby just because the high-and-mighty Herald didn't approve of them? "Well," Byron said to the empty garden, "if he doesn't want to be around me, that's just fine. I don't need him, anyway."  
  
He clutched his bag, and left the garden by the exit opposite to the one that Rhys had taken. Maybe he'd go see what the other Blues were doing.   
  
* * *  
  
As it happened, the other Blues--the noble-born ones at least--were gathering for an outing into the city. Although they were surprised to see Byron, no one would deny him entrance to their group; the Beckworth estate was powerful, and Lord Beckworth had even been a Counselor until the death of his wife. Defiantly, Byron sought out the small clique that followed Bestor, son of Lord Hobbwaite. They were notorious for their disdain for lesser mortals.   
  
Bestor welcomed him with a calculating glitter in his dark grey eyes. "Well-met, Byron. Strange to see you here."  
  
Byron bowed to Bestor and his male cronies, then gallantly kissed the perfumed fingers of the ladies. Lingering anger made him say airily, "I heard of the outing, and could think of no place with company so scintillating or amusing."   
  
Bestor clapped him on the back, just a shade too heartily to be sincere. "Excellent! We're planning to go see Madam Silverveil, as soon as we shake off the rest of these wet saddle blankets."  
  
"Madam who?"  
  
Elsabetta, a court beauty who had always gone out of her way to speak to Byron, fluttered her eyelashes at him. "Oh, have you not heard of her? It is said that she's a Hawkbrother mystic. They say that she can speak to the dead."  
  
Byron straightened. "She can what?"  
  
Bestor threw his arm around Byron's shoulders as the others regaled him with improbable stories of the Madam's exploits and powers. "It's total nonsense, of course," he said in bored tones, "but it should be worth an hour's diversion. Hey, Bree, you're the scholar, maybe you can tell us how she does it."  
  
"Maybe I can." Despite the company, Byron felt the stirrings of hungry curiosity within him. Was it possible to speak to the dead? He had to find out. "So, let's go."  
  
"Sure thing."  
  
"Oh," he said casually as the group started trooping into the city, "Bestor?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"My name's Byron. Don't call me Bree."  
  
The others threw him strange looks, but Bestor just smiled a hard little smile, and said, "Whatever you say, Byron."  
  
* * *  
  
Madam Silverveil's parlor was certainly foreign-looking enough, Byron thought as a rather scruffy butler showed them in, but the lady herself no more matched the description of Hawkbrothers from his books than he did. She was willow-thin and had applied liberal coatings of powder to her already pale skin. Perhaps she thought it made her look ethereal, but Byron was more reminded of uncooked dough. He quashed the uncharitable thoughts as he took a seat on one of the huge satin pillows that were strewn about. There were no chairs, just a low table of cherry wood that separated the clients from Madam Silverveil and a profusion of tapestries and rugs in soothing, pastel colors.  
  
The Madam studied the well-dressed group from behind the veil she wore, which was indeed silver. When she spoke, her voice was pitched to sound as if she were speaking from the bottom of the well. "Welcome, petitioners," she intoned, "I, and the sacred wisdom of the Spirits Beyond, are at your service."  
  
It went downhill from there. Byron sat through the increasingly bizarre performance with barely concealed impatience. Tables rattled, disembodied voices spoke in nonsense tongues, and fortunes were told. No one but Byron seemed to notice, or care, that half of what Silverveil said could be easily discovered from careful observation, and the other half was unverifiable or so vague that whoever she was speaking to had to connect the dots for themselves. Even Bestor had fallen under her spell, although in *his* case, it was probably the revealing outfit and blatant flattery that was distracting him.  
  
The session finally ended, and Byron sprang to his feet with unseemly haste. The entire evening had been a waste; he would have been better off studying...or tracking down Rhys and apologizing. As he turned to walk out, however, a slender hand fell onto his wrist, and Silverveil said, "My lord, might I have a minute of your time? Alone?"  
  
Bestor threw him a glare of pure envy, and Byron blushed. He longed to simply shake off the woman's hand, but he'd had too many ettiquette classes to do it, quite. "I'm afraid that I must be off. Curfew..."  
  
"It will only take a moment, my lord." She drew him away from the door, and his ears burned as he heard the buzz of the departing nobles. Silverveil pulled him out of the parlor, and into a smaller room. This room was almost barren of decoration, except for the ceiling-height bookshelves against each wall. They were stuffed with books and scrolls. Some of the spines were engraved with languages that Byron had never seen.   
  
"Where are we?"  
  
"My smaller study," Silverveil said, and she reached up to unhook her veil. When he saw what lay beneath the silver mesh, his eyes widened. Both of her cheeks were marred with deep scars, three on each side. Her eyes were an ordinary brown, but they appeared to catch the light in a fascinating way, as if there were sparks buried deep within.   
  
"How..how did it happen?"  
  
"Slavers. My parents were killed when I was very young, and the slavers marked me so that they could find me wherever I ran. So, you see, I know your pain, losing your mother so young."  
  
Byron recoiled, and manners or no, decided he would bear her touch no longer. He shook off the slender hand that held his wrist. "You don't know anything about me."  
  
"Don't I?" She smiled at him with lips that glistened red, like blood. "The outer parlor is merely an act, a show to appease those without the minds to uncover the true secrets. They," she waved a lazy hand towards the door, "don't want *truth*. They want pretty lies. It is a test, to see who is a true seeker. You passed, Byron of Beckworth."  
  
"A true seeker," he repeated, tasting the phrase. "Of what? What do you want of me?"  
  
"Nothing that you don't want to give. Why did you come tonight?"  
  
"My friends were coming, and I thought I'd..."  
  
"Lies!" She slashed her hand through the air across his face, curled as if to claw at his eyes. He flinched away, wondering for the first time if he were sharing the room with not a charlatan, but a madwoman. "If you do not wish to answer my questions, say so. But do not *lie* to me. The truth is polluted by lies."  
  
He stared at her. She appeared to be totally focused on him, waiting for his answer. It was an unusual sensation. Generally, people only listened to him with half an ear. Often, they were looking for the nearest exit. Even with Rhys, he'd always been conscious of the Companion's greater hold on his Chosen. Total attention, he realized, was very pleasant. "I wanted to see if you could do it."  
  
"Do what?"  
  
"Speak to the dead."  
  
Silverveil snorted, and stalked away from him. The hiss of silk and lace filled the air as she moved to the nearest bookcase. She caressed the dark leather spines of the books, her back to him. "Anyone can speak to the dead. We do it everyday. *Speaking* is not the problem. Listening...now that is the problem."  
  
"But you can't, can you? You can't hear them." It was almost a plea.  
  
"No." The word was flat, but somehow he could hear the pain that lay beneath it. "But sometimes, I'm so close that the taste of the other world fills my mouth. I need help to find the way across. I need..." she whirled, and her eyes caught and held his. "I need you, Byron. We can find the way together, I *know* it. I've seen it."  
  
"Seen it?" She didn't answer, only smiled. He shivered. "It may not be possible, you know. There may be no way to do it."  
  
"Do you really think that it's impossible?"  
  
He swallowed. Nothing was impossible, if you had the right information. "No."  
  
"And would you walk away from this? I have books and myths and stories of cultures you'll never see. The clue is somewhere in here...will you abandon the search for the truth behind death?"  
  
He thought of his mother, lying still and cold in her eternal rest. He thought of a childish promise made long ago. He thought of a whole world just out reach, with secrets and mysteries known by none but the gods.  
  
"No," he said in a voice barely above a whisper, and as the light in her eyes flared with triumph, Byron felt the feet of his destiny leave one path, and set upon another. 


	3. Chapter Three

On the Shore, a Wanderer  
Chapter Three  
  
"Pale grew thy cheek and cold,  
Colder thy kiss"  
-George Gordon  
  
* * *  
  
Emeraud stuffed bits of herbs and pots of salve into her bag after the last of her students left, humming the chorus of a popular ballad in tones that would have sent a Bard into screaming retreat. So she didn't hear the boy approach until a particularly vile sound reached her from just above her left ear. It sounded like a cat with a hairball, and her head snapped up. "I say, young man, are you quite all right?"  
  
The boy, his simple gray uniform proclaiming his allegiance, shuffled his feet nervously. "I'm fine, Healer," he said quickly.  
  
"Well, good. I'd hate to have to dose you." Emeraud tried not to smile as the Gray rushed to assure you of his good health. If she were sensitive, she *might* think that people found Healer's doses to be less than enticing. When he winded down again, she closed her bag with a snap, and said, "Very well. If you are not in need of healing, then why are you here? You're not in any of my classes."  
  
"No, Healer. I was trying to track down a...friend of mine." A guilty look flashed across the boy's pleasant, expressive face. "I haven't seen him in a few days and I, I wanted to tell him something."  
  
"Have a falling out, did you?" she asked shrewdly. His head jerked in a nod. "Far be it for me to impede the progress of friendship. Who are you looking for?"  
  
"Um. Byron, of Beckworth."  
  
She blinked. "Oh, he isn't here. I believe that he's doing a research project with Healer Elias." She tried to keep the relief out of her voice. Classes had been so much quieter since Byron had asked for her permission for a leave of absence.  
  
"But he's not!" The Gray ran his hand through his hair, then gave it a sharp tug for good measure. "I asked Herald Fontaine, and Healer Elias, and Bard Wellen, and they all say he's doing a research project, but none of them can agree on who he's doing the project *with*. In fact," his voice became hard, "they all seemed rather glad that he's gone."  
  
Emeraud felt her cheeks pink guiltily. To cover up her own discomfort, she took on a stern tone. "I don't know what to say, except that we need to see the Dean, right away. I would never have expected it of Byron, but if he's been deceiving us, and skipping class, that's a very serious situation."  
  
"I'd...rather we didn't." His eyes pleaded with her. "Not yet. The Dean will expel him, and Bree would be devastated. Can't we wait a little while?"  
  
"Wait? For what?" Although she knew the right course, Emeraud found herself reluctant to turn Byron in, as well. Despite his...enthusiasm, he was a student to be proud of. It would be a shame to lose him. Especially, the voice of her conscience whispered, when if you hadn't been so eager to get rid of him in the first place, a *Trainee* wouldn't have to be the one to discover he was missing.  
  
"Give me a couple of days to find him," the Gray was saying, "and I'm sure I can talk some sense into him." From the expression on his face, she thought that the boy had his own burden of guilt to shoulder concerning the young lord.  
  
She wavered for a moment, then her hands came up in a fluttering gesture of defeat. "Oh, all right. Two days. Then I have to go to the Dean. And if he comes back, maybe I'll even forget that we had this conversation." She wagged her finger in the Gray's suddenly hopeful face. "I said *maybe*, Trainee...?" She trailed off, suddenly realizing that she'd never gotten the boy's name.  
  
"Rhys, Healer," he said with barely concealed joy, then he grabbed her hand, bowed, and brushed his lips across the top of her knuckles. "You won't regret this, I promise. I'll find him."  
  
Emeraud watched him go with a rueful smile on her lips. If I weren't shaych I'd wonder *why* I agreed to spare the boy, she thought with amusement, then shook herself. "I won't regret this," she murmured. "Sounds like famous last words to me."  
  
Thank the gods that Annice was, finally, coming to dinner tonight. She had a feeling that she was going to need some unofficial advice about a certain Heraldic Trainee and his wayward friend.  
  
* * *  
  
The world was darkness, the clammy wetness of the hands clutched in his, and sounds of quick, labored breathing. Byron's lips moved in silent repetition of the mantra he'd translated from the ancient tome, and he could taste the acrid flavor of the incense that filled the salon air. They were getting closer. He could feel the sense of pregnant expectation spread through the circle. They were united, the Many and the One, and the Veil was close...so close...  
  
With an explosion of breath, Selles collapsed, and the circle was broken. Byron felt his consciousness slam back into his body with the force of a blow. On his left, Dorin jerked convulsively; his hand fell away to land on the floor with a muted thud. Byron opened his eyes. The thick smoke of the incense burned, and his eyes immediately teared up. He blinked rapidly until they cleared, then looked over at the crumpled form of the blond girl. "Maddie," he called and gestured to her friend, "help her up. Get her some water."  
  
"We were close!" Silverveil leapt to her feet, and paced across the end of the room. "I could feel it, I could almost see the Veil. If that...child hadn't given up, we would have succeeded!" Several of the other young men and women around the circle gave the barely conscious Selles murderous looks. Even Maddie was touching her best friend with a hint of distaste.   
  
"You don't know that," Byron soothed. He walked over to Silverveil, stilled her, and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Maybe it's for the best. After all, you said yourself that this was just to prove the validity of the methods, not to pierce the Veil. A scouting mission, not an invasion."  
  
Silverveil shuddered. "But we...were...so...*close*!" She grabbed a porcelain figurine from a nearby table, and flung it across the room. Everyone except for Byron and Silverveil ducked as it shattered. Byron just sighed.  
  
"There's no need to get upset. We'll do it. We *are* close, and it's just a matter of time. Just a little more patience is all it'll take." He rubbed her shoulders gently, willing her to calm. Deep down, he wondered how much time he had, before the instructors at the Collegium realized what had happened. If they cared. He pushed the thought away, as he always did, and tried to concentrate on his mentor.  
  
"A little more patience," Silverveil repeated, seeming to relax into his massage. "Yes, we need patience," she nodded to herself, and Byron closed his eyes in relief. He dropped his hands, and she turned to smile at him. "You are my treasure, my lord." Her eyes seemed to glow from within with the light of a field of stars, and he felt himself pink with pleasure.  
  
Silverveil glided over to Selles and kneeled down beside her. She took the cup of water from Maddie's hands, and held it up to Selles' lips. The girl drank gratefully. "Madam, I'm so sorry. I was trying, I really was."  
  
"Shhh. I know you were. All will be well, my dear. We simply need to work on your endurance before the next time. Perhaps you will stay with me after, and we will try together, hmm?"   
  
Selles agreed enthusiastically, and Byron could feel the tension seep out of the circle. But not out of him. Had there been a hint of something...wrong in Madam Silverveil's tone? Something dark? No, he decided, it was nothing but her lingering frustration. She was dedicated to the search, but she would never do anything...wrong. Right?  
  
"Well, fellow seekers," Silverveil said from her position on the floor. "I believe we've accomplished all that we can for this session. It's late, and we start again tomorrow, so get some sleep." The other members of the circle began to rise, some so dazed and drained that they could hardly walk. But no one asked for help, and Byron knew that if he offered, they would cheerfully shrug it off. No one wanted to seem too weak to continue, and they considered him to be the next in charge of the circle, behind only Silverveil, herself.  
  
They filed out, except for Selles, Maddie, and Byron. Silverveil patted Maddie on the shoulder. "It's all right, dear. We'll probably be a while, I'll let Selles stay with me tonight."  
  
"Maddie," Selles said weakly, "it'll be all right. Just go on."  
  
Maddie nodded, and stood. She didn't seem at all concerned, and maybe even a little envious that Selles would get to spend time alone with their mentor. She brushed by Byron, even though there was plenty of room, and fluttered her eyelashes at him. He stepped aside to let her through, then went to stand near the two women. Silverveil was helping Selles to her feet. She waved him languidly away. "Byron, dear, you're not needed."  
  
"If you're going to seek again, you'll both be exhausted. You need someone here to help you." They wouldn't, really, and he'd never seen Silverveil be very drained by their sessions. Like himself, she often seemed energized, even excited, at the end. But that uncomfortable feeling was still gnawing at him, and he didn't know what to do about it except to try and stay close.  
  
"No, Byron." Her eyes snapped at him, though her voice was bland. "I assure you, we can take care of ourselves. Am I correct, Selles, dear?"  
  
"Yes, Madam." There was no hesitation to the answer, and now both women were shooing him away. Byron bowed gallantly, and acknowledged his surrender.   
  
He gathered his things, and moved slowly to the door. He didn't know anything was wrong. It was just his imagination. Silverveil was his mentor, she'd opened up a whole new world of knowledge. She could be trusted, absolutely. There was nothing wrong. Selles wasn't worried, so neither was he.  
  
He repeated that line of reasoning all the way back to his rooms, gradually convincing himself that the feeling of unease was just a result of the session being interrupted so abruptly. He was reaching out for the door handle, when Rhys' voice called his name.  
  
He spun to face the Herald Trainee. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I wanted to apologize," Rhys said. He looked Byron over, from the tousled hair to the slightly mismatched set of clothes. "It's a little late to be out and about, isn't it? Especially with classes tomorrow."  
  
"I'm doing a research project..."  
  
"Yes, with Healer Elias. Or was it Healer Emeraud? No one really seems to know."  
  
Byron's eyes narrowed. "You've got a strange way of apologizing, Herald."  
  
Rhys' expression immediately softened. "I know. I'm sorry about the argument, Bree, I really am. But this...whatever this is, isn't the way to deal with that."  
  
Byron gave a bark of startled laughter. "Is that what you think I'm doing? That I was so broken up by our little squabble that I've abandoned my classes?" He watched Rhys' face flush, and realized the words had came out more mocking than he'd intended. He smiled to take the sting out of it, and said, "Truth to tell, I hadn't really thought about it for a few days. I've been busy."  
  
"Doing what?" Rhys demanded. "No one seems to know where you are, you don't even take dinner with the Court anymore, and you've been *lying* to your *teachers*. Doesn't that bother you?"  
  
It did, more than Byron was willing to admit. "This is important," he said helplessly. "I *am* doing a research project, of a sort, just not with any of the teachers here. Just, cover for me or something, just a little longer."  
  
"What kind of research project? With who? Why won't you tell the Dean about it?"  
  
"Stop pestering me!" The shout echoed off the walls of the corridor, and both boys froze, praying it didn't awaken anyone. After a long moment in which no angry sleepers appeared, they both relaxed.   
  
"We're worried about you," Rhys said, his blue eyes begging Byron to understand. Byron looked away. He couldn't give in, not yet. Not when they were so close. Soon, it'd be over, and he'd apologize, and everything would be okay. But not now.  
  
"Well, stop it," he snapped. "I can take care of myself." He jerked the door to his rooms open, and stepped inside before Rhys could say anything else.  
  
The slam echoed down the corridor, but this time neither of them noticed or cared. 


	4. Chapter 4

"Where is Selles?" Byron eyed the new member of Silverveil's inner circle with unease. Instead of the blond shopkeeper's girl, there was now a young man; a smith if one judged by the hands.

Madam Silverveil smiled at him, moved closer and let her hand rest comfortingly on Byron's shoulder, giving the young man a gentle squeeze. "Selles found that the rituals were tiring her to an unhealthy degree. I worked with her all that I could, but eventually we agreed that, to protect her, she would have to be removed from the circle." It was true that the girl had looked more fatigued as time had gone on; Byron had noticed that she seemed almost withered at times, but Selles had insisted that nothing was wrong. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I see. I should drop by her father's shop, then. Ensure that she is well," he replied, trying not to notice the angry expression that flitted briefly across Silverveil's face.

"If you must, Lord Byron. After all, I suppose I cannot hope for you to trust me, a lowborn slave, with such duties…"

He twitched, and grimaced in apology. "Not at all, Madam Silverveil! I do trust you, of course. I just thought that I might be able to help. I could ask the Healers to take a look at her, if she's feeling ill."

Silverveil shook her head. "She only needs rest, Byron. She is embarrassed enough at her own weakness; you'll only humiliate her if you bring attention to it." She suddenly smiled, that gentle, knowing expression that seemed to be only for him. "It is good of you to be concerned about a fellow seeker, but we can best help Selles by continuing the work. Once we breech the Veil, she'll know her sacrifice was worth it. I'll even let you be the one to carry the news to her," she promised.

Byron paused for a moment, torn between conflicting desires. The trust Silverveil placed in him warmed his heart; the way they shared the responsibility for the great work, the way she never turned away from his questions. He'd learned so much in the last moons, and once they had the final proof, crossed the final barrier, everyone would be better off. He believed that. He knew that.

And yet. Something about the way she said 'sacrifice' worried him. Something about the private meditation sessions with other seekers. _That's just silly, Byron. You've had the same exact sessions. Nothing bad happens. It's just tiring, that's all. You're letting your guilt over skipping class invent shadows out of nothing._

Silverveil was watching him, her dark eyes anxious behind the misty cloth of her veil. He smiled, and reached up to squeeze the hand on his shoulder. "That sounds fine, Madame Silverveil. I'm sure she just needs some rest, as you said. I won't bother her," he promised, firmly stomping on the continued unease. "Let's continue, shall we?" Her smile was as bright and warm as the Havens, as she drew him towards the circle of young people.

* * *

Annice looked up as Emerauld burst into her cluttered office. The senior Healer's expression was grim, and she closed the door behind her with a gentleness that caused even more worry than the drawn lines of her face. "We have to talk. Official talk," Maud proclaimed, moving a pile of papers off one of the chairs and dropping heavily down into it.

"About…?"

Maud's eyes dropped. "We may have a plague on our hands." At the Seneschal's wordless sound of shock, she continued, "I say /may, because we have not yet identified the victim as suffering from any disease that we know of. Her father claims that she's been increasingly fatigued, exhausted, even. And now…" The Healer trailed off, shook her head.

Annice's sister was not known for her delicacy in such matters; in fact, the Herald had seen her cheerfully discuss a particularly grotesque case of boils in the middle of dinner. At Court. So her reticence now caused the Seneschal's eyes to narrow with worry. "The girl is dead?"

Maud launched herself out of the chair, rocking restlessly on her heels. "Come with me. I think you need to see this." She turned and yanked the door open, leaving Annice to scramble past the piles of paperwork to keep up with her.

The two walked out of the Herald's Collegium, into the bright spring day. It was between classes, so there were a multitude of students of the Collegia in evidence, most of them carrying books. The young people respectfully bowed their head as the teacher and Seneschal walked by, their path taking them directly for the Healers' building. Maud led the way past the classrooms, down into the sub levels. The Healers' Collegium had an extensive basement system which was mostly used for herb rooms, storage of supplies, and bodies, when necessary. So, when Maud unlocked a door for Annice, and showed her into a tiny stone cell with a sheet-covered form as its only decoration, she was not particularly surprised.

The astringent herbs the Healers had hung from the ceiling masked the smell of death, but not by much. It was a strange, oddly sweet, scent, that nevertheless made Annice feel slightly sick. But she didn't turn away as her sister reached for the sheet, and pulled it downwards, revealing the person beneath. "Bright Havens," Annice exclaimed, "what has happened to it?"

"Her," Maud replied, grimly. Possibly only a Healer could tell; the body before them was recognizably human, but too desiccated for an easy sexual identification. The contours of the skull were clearly visible beneath paper grey skin that looked dry and flaky to the touch. Most of the hair was gone, and what was left were brittle clumps of a peculiar no-color. The teeth had crumbled in the corpse's mouth. Annice had seen people dead of horrific violence in her time as a Herald, but there was an unnatural feel to this body which disturbed her terribly. Maud gave her a moment to look, then pulled the sheet back up. She was kind enough to ignore the relief on her sister's face as she did so. "And to answer your question…we don't know. We can't find anything like this in our texts."

"Nothing?" Annice shook her head in disbelief. "This is not something that would be ignored, if we'd seen it before."

"That's my thought, as well. I was hoping that there might be something in the Archives, or that you Heralds might be able to tell us something. You're the experts on magic, after all."

Annice's head snapped up as she fixed a worried look on Maud. "I know of no Gift that would do this to a person. And you know I've done studies on the more aggressive Gifts. And no Herald would /ever/…"

"That's not what I'm saying," Maud broke in, hastily. "Sis, what if this isn't Herald magic? What if we're looking at /real/ magic?"

"Imp…" Annice stopped the word in her throat, choking down the instinctive denial. A Herald learned never to think anything was impossible. Instead, she closed her eyes, and reached for her Companion with her thoughts.

Dorian was there. _:Chosen? You're frightened of something.:_

She sent him the mental image of the victim's face. _:Have you seen anything like this, before?:_

_:No:_ he replied, although the mental voice was now shared her worry. After a moment, he continued, _:Neither have the others who I can contact. What is going on?:_

_:I wish I knew, love.:_ Annice opened her eyes, but wordlessly encouraged Dorian to continue to listen to the conversation. "The Companions haven't seen this, before, either."

"Can they tell us if it's magic?" Maud shrugged at Annice's hard look. "If you have a /better/ source, sis, by all means, use it. But it can't hurt to ask."

Annice sighed, but could not refute the point. Before she could even put the idea into words, Dorian spoke up. :_We cannot tell. But…Jameson might be able to.: _He sounded reluctant to mention it, and Annice could not blame him. The King's Own was elderly, and ailing. Few expected him to live out the next winter, and he spent most of his time bedridden. His Court attendances could only be managed, she knew, with the mental support of his Companion, Gallifrey. And the effort tired them both out terribly. Unfortunately, he was one of the most sensitive Heralds around to the presence of Gifts and their usage, and that sensitivity had not diminished with age.

"But this…we have to know about this." At Maud's questioning look, Annice filled her in on the details, and the Healer nodded her agreement.

"I'm not happy about it; Jameson is not my patient, but I'm familiar with him, and this is going to be hard on him. But if we're looking for a disease, and it's actually some manner of curse or magic…"

"Then more people will die. And it works just as badly the same way," Annice said. "If it /is/ a disease, then we need to know that, too, so that we don't get distracted." She eyed the cloth-covered form with bleak amusement. "If only the Truth Spell worked on the dead."

Maud barked a short, humorless laugh. "If it did, we'd demand a Herald on duty with us at all times. Let's go and fetch Jameson…if we're quick, he'll still have time to rest before dinner."

* * *

_:Flower-child, do you truly think that this is the right way to go about this?:_ Faniel asked Rhys, sounding more aggrieved than disapproving. The young Herald, crammed into a small and oddly-shaped cranny on the second floor landing of the building across from Madam Silverveil's 'parlor', grimaced.

"I'm up for better ideas, particularly since there's a pipe trying to get exceptionally personal." At Faniel's silence, he nodded, and continued in resigned tones, "Thought not, four-feet. I have to see what he's doing here. It doesn't make any sense. Why come to a two-bit shyster like this lady? From what I hear, she's no more Shin'a'in than I am!"

_:Hawkbrother:_ Faniel supplied, helpfully.

"Whatever. It just doesn't fit, is all I'm saying. It's not like Byron. He hasn't been to class at all in nearly two months. He's surly, and suspicious, and the direct approach didn't work."

_:Some might suggest that's because the young Lord does not wish you interfering in his affairs.:_

"Well, the young Lord can just stuff it. I'm his friend, and he's ruining himself, Faniel. Somebody has to shake some sense into him."

_:Has it occurred to you that it's not particularly unusual for a young noble of Byron's age to spend an unusual amount of time in the domicile of a female commoner?:_ Faniel's dry observation took on a hint of amusement as his Chosen blushed.

Rhys wavered for a moment. It wasn't as if he really wanted to interfere if Byron was…well, occupied with less scholarly pursuits. But at the same time, it just didn't fit. And every time he saw his friend, he looked worse. Tired, worried, and somehow drained. It wasn't the bearing of a man enjoying a lover. Something was wrong, and it had to have something to do with this fortune-teller. "I'm staying."

_:As you wish.:_ his Companion replied laconically. If the other approved or not, he couldn't easily tell from the tone of the mind voice, so Rhys didn't bother trying to figure it out. Although he'd only been Chosen for about half a year, it became apparent quickly that Faniel wasn't going to tell him what he should or should not do. No, he much preferred to wait until his Chosen bungled it, and then he could be smug. _:I am never smug. Merely confident.:_

"Confident, my eye. Believe me, I know smug when I feel it in my head."

_:Doubtless from your vast personal experience of the emotion?:_

"Ha ha, horseface." He shook his head, grinning to himself, then went still. "There he is!" Byron stepped out into the street…or rather, staggered. Rhys scowled from his perch, eyeing the young man's thin frame with worry. "He's not looking good." Faniel said nothing in response, but he could feel the slow pulse of the Companion's wordless agreement through their link.

The Herald Trainee watched Byron disappear down the street, then turned his attention back to the window across the way. This was, after all, /not/ the direct approach, and if Faniel was right, and the woman was only a courtesan, then Rhys could quietly remove himself from the situation, without any difficulty. Right? Right. He peeled himself from his cramped nook, and climbed down the wall of the building, using the oddly shaped, much rebuilt, structure to cover his movements. Once he'd reached the cobblestones, he slipped into the late afternoon crowds, drifting towards Silverveil's building. Her rooms were on the second story, over a run down potter's shop, so first he strolled into the shop, and began making casual inquiries as he studied the merchandise.

The storekeeper was, apparently, quite used to people asking about the enigmatic 'hawkbrother'. That, along with the respect the Grays garnered, had him eagerly sharing everything he knew. Which, Rhys reflected sourly, wasn't exactly much. Rumors and theories, and a few things clearly thrown in just to impress the customer. She was not, it seemed, a courtesan, at least not openly. She saw clients of both sexes, of several different social classes, and in groups. She claimed to speak to the dead, to see the future, and be able to determine a person's deepest secrets. If the shopkeeper's stories were to be believed, the woman was more effective and powerful than the Circle combined (not that he said so in as many words to the Herald). Rhys left with little more real information than he'd had before. Except for one thing: Madam Silverveil left every afternoon for tea with one of her regular clients, an elderly craftswoman who no longer left her house.

Rhys found a spot out of the way with a good view of the building's door, and waited. "You don't suppose she's actually Gifted, do you?" he asked Faniel quietly, ignoring the dubious look of a passerby.

_:It is…possible, although unlikely. Had she strong Gifts, there would have been some indication before now:_ Faniel offered, but he didn't sound terribly confident.

"You're not sure about that, are you?"

_:No. We are not infallible, and to my knowledge, none of us have seen or been in her presence. She must keep to herself.:_ The Companion offered, with the mental equivalent of a shrug.

"Okay. So, let's go worse case scenario, here. She's Gifted. Probably Mindspeech or Foresight. Maybe the Bardic Gift…I don't know exactly how theirs works, but I've seen a Bard entrance a whole group of people." He gestured at the air, miming the stroking of a harp string. "What do we do /then/?"

_:If she's abusing Gifts, we'll have to tell the Circle. There are those who can block the channels of the Gifted.:_

Rhys blinked at that. "There are? Among the Heralds?"

_:No. Healers and Bards. Heralds do not abuse their gifts, but it is occasionally the case that someone born with a Gift does not have the integrity to use it correctly. If one can prove that they are abusing it:_ Faniel mindspoke, his mental voice sounding unhappy, :_then they can be prevented from being able to do such in the future. It is sometimes necessary, but never enjoyed.:_

"I…hadn't thought about it," Rhys said, a shiver running up his spine. His Gifts, other than Mindspeech with his Companion, had not yet come to the fore, but just being able to speak to Faniel like this, or sharing conversation with one of his instructors, was already such a part of him that the idea of having it torn away…it was like imagining being maimed. "Gods, that's…there she is!" His eyes had remained on the door even during the mental conversation, and now they sharpened as a woman dressed in odd robes and a silver veil stepped out onto the street. She carried herself like a queen, and strode off, head held high.

Rhys took a deep breath. "All right. Let's get this done. I don't want to bring anyone else in, not unless we're sure." He heard Faniel's warm pulse of reassurance and caution, and then the Herald Trainee pushed himself from the wall, and towards the building.


	5. Chapter Five

With every step Rhys took towards the building, he found the nervous apprehension leaving his body, as if it seeped through the soles of his boots and into the cobblestones of the city. For the first time in weeks, he felt as if he was finally _doing_ something about the worry that had dogged his steps. Okay, he admitted to himself as he hurried past a cart, it wasn't perhaps the most intelligent thing to do, and if he got caught he might very well find himself serving out the rest of his Trainee days at a Guard post in the middle of nowhere. Even so, his heart became lighter.

He swung wide as he crossed the street, keeping an eye on the shopkeeper he'd been questioning earlier; the man might recognize him. But luck was with him this time, as the potter was involved in a discussion with a haughty looking lady's maid, and seemed to need all of his conversation. Rhys slipped into the stairwell and climbed up the narrow wooden stairs to the second story. There was no writing on the door, simply a crude painting of a pair of blue eyes behind a grayish cloud of smoke, along with a painted coin, indicating that the services were for sale or trade. Rhys glanced down the stairs. Still empty, so he leaned one ear against the door, holding his own breath while he listened for the faint sounds that might indicate that Silverveil left someone behind. Nothing. Nothing but the beat of his own heart, and the whisper of his blood in his ears. He let out his breath in a pleased sigh, then reached for the knob of the door.

It was locked, of course. Rhys closed his eyes to concentrate on the feel of the metal on his hand, and called upon his Gifts. The world came back into focus, although a peculiarly flattened vision, as his Farsight opened. He directed his focus to the other side of the door, struggling to turn it towards the wooden surface. There; the door was secured by a simple iron latchlock, where the latch could be operated by hand from the inside, or with a key from without. The trainee almost sagged with relief, then called upon his weakest Gift.

Almost immediately, a dull headache began to throb at his temples, his body trembling as if he was trying to lift his Companion over his head. Biting down on his lower lip, he continued to concentrate; slowly, painfully slowly, the latch began to move in its slot. When it finally slid back with a barely audible click, he sagged against the door in relief and pain, bright stars going off behind his closed eyes. "Gods, that's never going to be easy."

_:It will, one day. Easier, at least. You must be careful, flower-child:_ Faniel warned, and Rhys winced as even this light, beloved mindtouch made his head ache even more. _:Your Gifts are barely awakened.:_

"Yeah, well," Rhys muttered, and shrugged. The door creaked as he pushed it open and slipped inside. The salon was a large, airy room that was decorated in pillows and lengths of cheap tulle cloth in a variety of pastel colors. They hung everywhere, fluttering in the breeze he made as he walked around, giving the room an air of unreality. A whole bolt of the stuff, studded with lines of beads, blocked off the main room from what, he supposed, were Silverveil's private quarters. The room smelled…odd. Fragrant and thick, the scent lingered on the tongue, almost heavy enough to be felt. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, or pleasant, for that matter. "I don't recognize that at all."

A quick sweep of the outer room gave him little of interest; there was an offering bowl, and the number of coins suggested that Silverveil made a good profit plying her trade. He found a small drawer of incense that smelled like the room, and scooped a little of it into one the pouches on his belt. The healers could probably tell him if it was dangerous, or just odd. He crossed the room, frowning to himself. "Well, what were you expecting, Rhys? Flayed skulls or a Karsite war band camped in the front room?" He chuckled, and shook his head as he reached for the curtain and pulled it back.

The room beyond was much darker. The one window was covered in a thick drape of cloth, so the only light was that which drifted in from the front room, through the gauzy curtains. Rhys could see why; the shabby living quarters would entirely ruin what air of mystery and allure the front room managed. There was a scarred wardrobe directly in front of him; a quick look confirmed that it held several long dresses, and some godawful thing that was probably some idea of a Hawkbrother outfit. Admittedly, Rhys had never seen one of the fabled forest dwellers in the flesh, but he was pretty sure they probably didn't have costumes that had feathers /there/. For one, it had to tickle terribly. To the right of the wardrobe, closest to the shrouded window, there was a vanity with a polished piece of metal as the mirror. Various toiletries rested on its splintered surface, along with a dogtoothed comb, and a few cosmetic pots.

"If that offering bowl is anything to go by, she should be able to afford better than this, Faniel," Rhys muttered, reaching out to stroke the top of one of the jars. "Where is the money going?"

_:Drugs, perhaps. Or favors. If one of her 'powers' is the ability to tell the present or the future, she may be relying on informers.:_

"Or making the future for herself," Rhys suggested, grimly. As much as the Crown tried to make life bearable for all Valdemar's people, there were still places, even in the capital city, where enough coin could buy men and women willing to make sure that a certain person had a very bad day, if you were inclined to it.

_:You don't know that, Rhys:_ Faniel cautioned. _:Don't let your dislike of what Byron is doing provoke you to condemn this woman based on speculation.:_

Rhys bit back his first response, forced himself to acknowledge the point. Just because he was vaguely disturbed by the cheap feel of the place didn't mean that the woman was doing anything wrong. Or anything more wrong than talking the gullible out of their money; and if that was a crime, then most of the Merchants' Guild would have to be locked in irons. "You're right," he finally said, with a sigh. "I think we're wasting our time. If Byron /wants/ to spend his time and his family's money supporting this woman…"

"…help…" The whisper was barely audible, a ragged, dry sound that snaked through the air of the room from the corner beside the bed. Rhys hurried in that direction. The bed was a narrow cot, with a straw filled mattress and tattered sheets. As he watched, one of those sheets moved, then a couple of skeletal fingers made their way up over it, trying grab on. "…ple…ase. Help…"

Rhys jumped forward, scrambling to look over the other side of the bed. A…well, it was probably a woman. It was wearing a dress over its emaciated frame, the head lolling backwards as it, she, stared up at him. Dull brown eyes pleaded with his own, her lips moving, although nothing came out but the faintest breath. "Gods save us," Rhys whispered. "Faniel. Fan, I need you outside."

_:On my way!:_ He sent the Companion a pulse of wordless horror, unable to even speculate on what had withered the woman so badly. Carefully, he pulled her into his arms, her body going limp. It was far lighter than any human being should be; it was more like carrying a bundle of sticks, wrapped in cloth, than anything else. Outside, he heard shouts of protest, and the ring of Companion's hooves on stone.

"C'mon, just hang on, miss. We'll get you help," Rhys promised, his voice strained as he struggled back through the room and down the stairs. _Oh, Byron, what have you gotten yourself into?_

* * *

Jameson's breathing filled the chill room with its slow, steady rattle. The elderly Herald was wrapped in almost a dozen blankets, his paper-pale skin stretched over fine boned features that had been handsome at one time. Now, Annice reflected sadly, he bore more resemblance to the corpse on the table than it was comfortable to think about. His eyes were still bright, though, black and keenly intelligent as they surveyed the shrouded body. He looked up at her, and mindspoke, _:I will need to touch the body. Is that all right?:_ Jameson rarely spoke out loud any more, but his mindvoice was still strong, warm, and at this moment, saddened by the sight before them.

Annice looked to Maud. "He'll need to touch the body. Is that going to mess anything up?"

"We're still not sure if it's a disease," Maud said, giving Jameson a concerned look. "You're not in the best of shape as it is, Herald…"

_:I am dying. Best to do it in the pursuit of duty than as a forgotten old man: _Jameson replied sharply in Annice's mind. She relayed the message, and Maud's lips twitched upwards in a smile.

"Damned Heralds. Not a one of you has listened to a Healer's advice **before**, so why start now?" She gestured at the body, nodding her permission, and Annice moved to help the King's Own make his way across the stone floor to the table. His body held the remnants of his former muscular nature, he was surprisingly solid for such an old, thin man. But she could feel the tremble running through him at even such a short trip, and the rattle in his throat was worse.

It took Jameson a few minutes to regain his breath and stand on his own. When he did, his hands moved out, thin and white, to touch the woman's desiccated face. The Herald's eyes closed, his breath evening out into the pattern of focus the Circle used when falling into trance-state. Annice and Maud held their breaths, the former's hands hovering just beyond the elderly man's back, in case he needed support. The time crawled by, and even her Companion was silent in the back of Annice's mind, a curious feeling in her head, as if he was distracted by something happening elsewhere.

Then, Jameson sagged, all of the strength running out of his body as his eyes fluttered open again. The rattle in his throat was terrible and deep, his eyes fixed on a far away point. "Maud!" The word was scarce out of her mouth before her sister was there, reaching for him, and reaching for Annice's power with her mind. They flowed seamlessly together, Annice offering what she had to give, and the Healer using it to enhance her own Gift.

"Veil…" Jameson reached for Annice's hand, squeezing it with surprising strength, even as his legs began to seize. "Silver…veil…took it all…too much." His voice was as dry as parchment, rusty from disuse, but his eyes held hers with fever-bright intensity.

"What do you mean? What veil?"

Maud snapped, "Don't make him talk, Annice! I'm trying to…" her voice trailed off as she turned her concentration back to the task at hand. Her face was drawn and anxious, never a good sign.

And Jameson shook his head, spoke again, forcing the words out with what Annice instinctively knew was the last of his strength. "It is not meant that the barrier be breeched. Tell…tell the boy he must…not…" The Herald's eyes closed, and the silence, the absence of the elderly man's rasping breath, weighed heavily on them both.

Annice didn't have to look at her sister to know he was gone, but she did anyway. Maud's eyes were bright with moisture, and she shook her head just as the Death Bell began to toil. She heard it not with her ears, but in her mind, as the web that bound the Circle together reverberated with the loss of one of its own.

Behind them, the scrape of leather on stone, and a muffled gasp. Annice looked up and around, still holding Jameson in her hands, to see a young Herald-Trainee, his Grays dusty, cradling a woman in his arms. A woman that looked as wasted and drained as the one currently on the table. He was covered in sweat, panting from exertion, and his eyes were wide with shock. He looked all of twelve, and a scared twelve at that. From somewhere, Annice managed to drag his name. "Trainee Rhys." His head jerked in a nod. He offered the body in his arms to them, and the woman moaned, a broken little sound.

It caught Maud's attention as only the wounded could, and the Healer stood up quickly. "Come here, boy. Put her down on the floor for now. How did you find us down here?"

"H-healer Tomas. Is the King's Own…"

"Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, boy," Maud snapped as she directed him to the place she indicated. He put the woman down with great care, even as Annice did the same with Jameson's body, lowering the old man gently to the floor. _Good bye. We were never friends, but I hope the Havens are all they say, for none deserve them if you did not._

She blinked her eyes rapidly, then stood up, moving to the boy. "Where did you find this one?"

"I…uh…that is, in the rooms of 'Madam Silverveil'. I think she did this, but I don't know how. I have a friend who might be involved, but I'm sure he never would have been a part of anything that would have hurt anyone…"

"Hold." Rhys fell silent at Annice's brief command. She exchanged a look with Maud. "Silverveil. Silver veil. Who is this?"

He shook his head. "I don't…she tells fortunes, things like that. I only went because Byron was looking so…tired. And he's still skipping classes. I just didn't know what else to do." The wideness of his eyes told her that there was something in this the child was terrified he was going to be punished for. Ordinarily, she'd find out exactly what that was, but for the moment, other priorities ruled.

"Can you take us there? Now?"

"Yes, of course!"

Annice looked to Maud, only to receive a curt shake of the head in return. "I can't, Annice. This woman is a fingerwidth from death as it is. I need to be here, and I need more Healers. Send them down on your way."

"I can fetch…" Rhys started, but Annice grabbed his arm, began dragging him out of the room.

"You're coming with me, Trainee. We'll send someone as we pass." She thought of Jameson's last words. "I think we may _need_ you. And a squad of Guards."


	6. Chapter Six

_Bryon I ned you._

The note was brief, Silverveil's scrawl even worse than usual. Byron had been teaching the woman to write in their spare time, a few snatched lessons here and there. She could read, after a fashion, but her writing had been the next thing to utterly illegible. It was gratifying to see her progress, even as a feeling of dark unease settled in his belly. He looked over at the urchin who'd brought him the message, the child's sex indeterminate beneath the layers of clothes and dirt. "Where was she when she gave this to you?"

"Her rooms, m'lord." The child's eyes were wide, a muddy shade of green, one hand still extended. "Seemed awful b'divvled, she did. Worried, like."

"Did anything seem out of place?" The child's hand remained extended, and with a sigh, Byron slipped his hand in his purse and withdrew a couple of silver bits. These, he deposited into the grubby palm with an appropriately solemn air. They disappeared so fast he had a real pang of worry for the rest of his purse.

"Nay, m'lord. Seemed fine. Mebbe she were haunted. M'mam says that sort come to bad ends," the child chattered, with a slow nod.

Byron snorted, and shook his head. "I doubt it. Thank you," he added, before pushing himself from the bench. He'd been grabbing a noon meal at one of the merchant taverns in the city; a place not so fine as to run into any of the Blues from the Palace, but not so poor as to be dangerous for him. He dropped the coins of his fare on the table, waiting until the serving woman had marked them with a nod before he headed out.

It was undoubtedly his imagination, stirred by the urgent note and the child's words, but the city streets felt strange and hostile as he trotted through them. The late afternoon shadows seemed to flicker at the edges of the alleyways; Byron turned his head to face one directly, and a lean, hungry youth with hard eyes ducked back inside a doorway. Maybe not entirely his imagination, after all. After that, he was sure to keep his cloak, sturdy and a bland dark brown, wrapped over his Blues.

Silverveil's rooms weren't far, a fact his legs appreciated as he pounded up the narrow stairwell, and came to the door. His knock was answered immediately, the door opening, and the medium's face appearing in the crack. "Lord Byron," she breathed, her eyes wide and unlined with the kohl she usually used. She pulled him inside, his instinctive greeting cut short by the sight within. The rooms were nearly demolished, the cheap tulle and cloth shredded, pillows thrown everywhere, furniture upended. "The enemies of truth align themselves against us!"

He extracted his arm from her grip, gently. "Silverveil, what happened? Did someone attack you?" She _seemed_ uninjured, although agitated. As soon as he freed his arm, she began to pace restlessly, the light cloth of her robes flowing around her skinny, scarred legs. He thought again of the hollow eyes of the youth in the alleyway. "Was it an attempt at theft?"

Silverveil tossed her hands up into the air, her gesture dismissive as she kicked a pillow out of the way. "This? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. She's _gone_, Byron. Someone must have taken her. Stolen her, yes. But they will not understand. They won't understand how important it is." She turned with an almost audible snap to face him, tears welling in her eyes. "You understand. You're the only one. And we're so close…we cannot be stopped now."

That dark feeling in the pit of Byron's stomach grew, became sour and hot. He swallowed to quiet it, not entirely successfully. Drawing closer to Silverveil, he reached out to place a hand on the woman's trembling shoulder. "Who is she, Madam Silverveil? What is going on?" She started to shake her head, her eyes sliding away from his, but he tried again, keeping his voice as gentle as possible. "Tell me, please. You know I want to help."

Her expression softened, lost that hard, frantic edge that had been giving it an uncomfortably lunatic cast, and she leaned into his touch. "Yes, I know. You alone understand," she said, as if to herself. "Jerin was so bright, and she only wanted to help. She almost understood. Almost. She wouldn't have left on her own. Couldn't," she added, with a breathy sound. It took him a moment to identify it as a laugh, and when he did, a jolt of heightened unease went through him. Jerin was one of the original circle members. She, like Selles, had been ailing after the sessions, looking more exhausted after each one.

"Jerin…was going to rest, wasn't she?" he asked, carefully.

"She was close, Byron. Through her, we could see it. I knew, with just a little more preparation, she'd be ready to lead us through…"

"Silverveil," he nearly choked on the name, "what have you been doing with her?"

Her answer was interrupted by the rap of knuckles on the door. He turned towards it. "It's a little early for the first sessions," he remarked, and moved towards it, only to be stopped by her hands grabbing his arm again. She shook her head frantically as a voice came from the other side, muffled by the door.

"City Guard, please open up."

"Oh, hells," Byron cursed, his head snapping back to his mentor, "What have you _done_?"

"The Veil, Byron…you cannot open it without sacrifice. You know that!" Her voice was somehow pleading and commanding at the same time, a wildness in her eyes. He pulled away to move towards the door. "No! You must not open it!"

"We can't deny the Guard. If you've done something…hurt someone…"

She suddenly released him, and he staggered, even as the pounding on the door became louder, more demanding. "I? You will not abandon me, Byron! We have both been seekers, you understood what that meant! What is one life, two lives, three lives, against tearing down the walls that keep our loved ones away from us? We could bring them /back/…it was only temporary…"

"No…you can't do things like that…"

The door shuddered under another blow, the old and tired wood giving way. Silverveil backed towards one of the shelves as Byron turned to look at the door again. "Coming! Just a moment!" he shouted, his voice wavering. The pounding increased. "Gods. We've got to answer it."

"No!" Silverveil swept something off of the shelf and hurled it past him to the door. It burst into a brief shower of colored flames; it was one of her medium's tricks, used to emulate the 'spiritual fire' of her false summonings. Normally harmless, this time the flames fell onto the ruined and torn curtains on the floor, and as Byron watched in horror, they caught, going up like kindling. It took only a moment for the flames to spread over the thin cloth and old wood, and even as he moved to try and smother it with his cloak, the flames spread too far, too fast, and he fell back, coughing.

Behind him, incredibly, Silverveil was laughing. She swept another of the flame packets up and tossed it into a corner, fire blossoming in its wake. "Stop it," Byron shouted, lunging for her before she could throw a third. "Stop it! You're going to kill us both!"

"Don't you see? I saw this…I knew that you would be the one to pierce the Veil with me, Byron. We will see the beyond together." She didn't so much fight him as clung to him, her hands locked around the young man's slender wrists. Byron was not a fighter, and her madness gave her unexpected strength. They staggered around in a parody of a dance; he tried to push them towards the window. A broken leg or two was much preferable to burning alive, wasn't it?

"Silverveil, listen," he tried, raising his voice over the crackle of the gathering flames and the shouts that were coming from outside as the guards smelled the smoke that was beginning to rise. "It doesn't have to happen like this! We can explain…"

"No! They will try to stop us! You must know that they'd never let us continue." She coughed, then laughed again. "They can't stop us now, Byron!"

"We can't continue! Not if we're hurting people!"

Her eyes snapped to his, their oaken depths furious and entirely devoid of sanity. The sullen red and yellow lights of the flame flickered in her stare, and it wasn't just the rising temperature that had Byron breaking out into a cold sweat. Her nails dug into his arms, locking them together despite his repeated attempts to dislodge her. They staggered into view of the window, and he heard a familiar shout. "Bree! Bree, jump!"

The spell of her eyes was broken, and he wrenched his head to the side to look down. Two figures, one in grey and one in white, stood beside two white horses that glimmered in the evening like spirits. The grey-clad shape waved his hands frantically. "Bree! We'll catch you!"

"Rhys…"

"NO!" With an almost inhuman strength, Silverveil wrenched them away, throwing herself to the floor and taking Byron with her. They hit the smoldering floor with a crash that took his breath away, leaving him unable to resist as she rolled atop him, pinning him with her weight. "You will not leave me! Not you. I won't allow it!"

He looked up at her, his eyes drawn to hers despite himself. As their gazes locked, something happened. It was if she'd reached down inside of him and wrenched at parts of him he hadn't even realized existed, clawing and pulling them out of his body. The sensation wasn't pain, exactly, but the loss was so profound that he screamed, feeling his self pour into her. His heart began to hammer in his chest, the sound louder than even the splintering wood as the guards forced their way into the room.

_It won't be soon enough,_ he realized, even as his hands scrabbled against her arms, trying to push her off. _I'm bleeding and I don't think any Healer can stop this wound._ "Please," he managed, the word sounding weak and fearful to his own ears. "Please…Silverveil…"

Her eyes bored into his, and the energy pouring from him into her became a torrent. "We pierce the Veil tonight, Byron," she hissed, and bent over his body. Her lips sought out his, and as they did, he heard the hammering of his heart rise to a crescendo, then stop.

The silence was white.

****

The scent of old books filled his nose, familiar and as comforting as his bed back in his estate. He was standing among tall, narrow stacks, their shelves packed with thick volumes. How he'd arrived, he couldn't remember, and a shiver of fright wormed its way down his spine whenever he cast his mind to the past. He shied from it, and let himself wander instead, fingers trailing over the cracked leather and thick cloth of the books. The library was unfamiliar and far beyond large; even the Palace could not match the size of these stacks. In fact, when he craned his neck to look at their tops, he could see nothing but wood and books, ascending until his sight blurred into the darkness above.

_That's not right. There's no wood strong enough to do that; these books should be collapsing under their own weight,_ his mind remarked, but it was a casual thought, without the fright and unease that his own past evoked. He was sure that things were supposed to be different than that, but it simply didn't seem important right now. He rounded a corner, and found a woman standing in the center of the aisle. She was plain, dressed in a simple day dress of dark blue silk, the cut almost an insult to the fine fabric. But her smile was warm, lighting up her pale eyes and making her face arresting. "Byron."

It took him a moment to recognize the name as his own. "I don't know you."

"I know. We never had much time, my son. And what memories you had of me, you've changed to suit yourself." If it was a rebuke, it was delivered gently, and with more affection than he'd have thought possible. And still, the words cut at him, threatened to tear away the block on his memory. Byron flinched and stepped backwards, only to have the woman come closer.

"I-I don't know you," he said again, but this time, his voice wavered, cracked. Her hair was the same color as his, the cast of the cheekbones familiar. And her voice stirred something in the back of his mind. He shook his head. "You're not…my mother is dead." A truth he hadn't remembered until he'd spoken it, and with it, other memories threatened.

"Yes, Byron." That same sad smile on her face as she reached out for him. He didn't move, and she didn't, quite, touch him. "For years, now. But you have never let me rest, not in your heart."

"I…I…" More memories slipped beneath the block, and faces flickered. His father, the proud man crying in a stone chapel. Pitying looks and whispers from the local nobility. Rhys, laughing, as they walked beside his companion. And Silverveil, her scarred eyes wise and knowing, her insane laughter as the flames snapped and devoured around them. "Am I dead?"

His mother sighed, and stepped back. "Perhaps."

"What does perhaps mean?" This time, he was the one who moved forward, and she the one who turned away. She looked into the stacks, the endless stacks, as if trying to find the answer in one of the numberless books there. "Do I get to stay with you?" It was a child's question, and he asked it with the voice of a little boy.

"Perhaps." A pause. "I cannot stop you from seeking the Havens."

It didn't take memories to pick out a mother's censure in the softly-spoken words. "But...if you could…"

She reached out for one of the books, and it fell into her hand, opening on its spine, the pages blurring by. "Fire rages in the city of Haven. A wayward breeze carries sparks from one place to the other. And two young women are dead, drained so deeply of their spirit that there was less than a spark left to find the Havens."

"I didn't…" Her look stopped the words in his throat. _I did. I saw what was happening, and I didn't stop it. I didn't ask the right questions, and I __**knew**__ that questions should have been asked. If not for me, my help and research, would Silverveil have even gotten so far to think of hurting those girls like that? I might as well have killed them myself._ "I…did not mean to."

"Does the intention of an action matter, if the action's outcome harms the innocent?" Now she sounded less like the vague, flickering maternal recollections he was regaining, and more like the ethics and philosophy teacher at Collegium. Her head was bent over the book, but he could see her sidelong look.

"…no. It doesn't. But…I wanted to see you again."

"Did you, Byron? Or did you want to prove to everyone else that you could see me again?" She never raised her voice, or her head, but the words cut more deeply into him than anything ever had, because they were true. _I barely remember you,_ he thought, his mouth working soundlessly, _if you hadn't told me who you were, I wouldn't have thought to check._ Shame threatened to choke him, and the young man turned away, his fists clenching at his sides.

His voice was low, barely audible, "I wanted to know. If it could be done. If I could do it."

She made no sound until he felt her arms come around him. It was strange, she was smaller in stature than he was, but at the same time, it felt to Byron as if her arms were much larger…or he were much smaller while within her embrace. "To want to know is not a sin, only to pursue knowledge without compassion. We can be blinded by the light as easily as by the darkness."

He was sweating, he realized, his skin hot with shame. "I'm sorry. I should have…" a hoarse laugh was torn from his throat, "there are a lot of things I should have done. And now it's rather too late."

"Perhaps."

The booksmell had strange undertones, or perhaps it was some perfume his mother wore. It was hot and smoky, though, not what a noblewoman would wear. It smelled like fire, and his head jerked in recognition as the last memories slotted in place. He could feel, rather than see, her smile at his back. "You need not face the consequences of this, my son. You cannot bring back the dead, not matter what you try. Not myself, and not those two young women, nor the guardsman who has caught on fire, nor the other innocents who have already died this night."

There was something unspoken behind her words, and he groped for understanding. "But…but if I return, can I help? Will fewer people die because of what I've done? Or not done?"

"Perhaps." It was cold comfort, but he realized his decision was made even before her arms slipped away from him, before her voice became the crackle of flames and groan of overstretched wood. "Tell your father than I will always love him, my son. My Byron…"

"Byron! Byron, damn your hide!"

As awakenings went, it was the least pleasant one Byron had suffered until this night. The taste of burning filled his mouth, and his eyes stung, watering and overflowing as he forced them open. Rhys knelt beside him, shaking him so hard that his head was clattering on the cobbles beneath him. They were too warm, and it was too bright for the night sky that stretched up above him. "…Rhys?"

"Thank the Gods. You _idiot!_" The trainee's uniform was more black than grey, he suddenly realized, and his hands were cracked, peeling in the heat. _My fault,_ Byron realized with another pulse of dull shame. He struggled upright, every breath feeling like someone was trying to shove a handful of pine needles down his throat. "Are you okay? Talk to me, Bree."

"…fine," he managed to rasp out, in defiance of the evidence so far. Another presence loomed over them, and he forced his head upwards to look at a woman in soot-stained Whites, her expression severe and disapproving.

"This one'll live," Annice remarked to the Healer trailing her, and it sounded very much as if she'd prefer that he didn't. He flinched under the coldness of her eyes, and waved off the Healer who bent down to him. It was Healer Emerauld, and he couldn't meet her gaze.

"No, she's right," he said, and ignoring Rhys' squawk of protest, he scrambled to his feet. He was burnt, his clothes sticking to places on his body in a way that he just _knew_ couldn't be good. But he could stand. Especially with the Herald trainee at one shoulder, supporting him. The fire roared before them; the entire building Silverveil had once had her rooms in had gone up in flames. There were blue-clad guards and white-clad Heralds by the dozen, organizing bucket chains in a surprising, eerie silence. The wounded, like himself, had been moved out of the way to the street. Some of the burned groaned and whimpered like animals, but those were to be preferred to the few he saw that did absolutely nothing at all. He swallowed, and tasted blood. With a gesture at the other wounded, he told Emerauld, "Help them. I'm fine."

"The hell you are," Rhys snapped. "Have you looked at yourself?"

"Trying not to, Rhys." He swayed and felt the breeze push the wisps of his hair out of his forehead. As soothing as the brief coolness of the air was, it made his blood chill in his veins. "Have to…going to have to destroy the buildings there…" he gestured down the path of the breeze. "Before the sparks make the jump. Or wet them down."

"We can't just pull down sections of the city at a boy's whim. Don't you think you've caused enough troubles for one night," the older Herald snapped, her gaze challenging and, he realized as he forced himself to meet her eyes, pained. It hurt her to see these people hurt, although _she_ had nothing to do with what happened to them.

"I'm sorry. But it's that, or we might lose this whole…" his voice broke off into a coughing fit. He would have fallen over, if not for Rhys right there. He gasped out, "Whole quarter. Please. I know…what to do."

"The boy needs to lay down before he falls down," Emerauld put in, her voice stern.

"She's right. Hells, Bree, I didn't pull you out of that damned inferno only to see you kill yourself now."

He shook his head, and raised his eyes to Annice again, mutely pleading. She stared at him for a long, tortuous moment. "He can rest later," she finally said, and grabbed him by the other arm.

"Annice!" The Healer's loud protest drowned out Rhys' indignant squawk.

"Maud."

"…damn it. Fine, but I'm coming along, and you will not let your anger work this boy into death."

Annice gave Byron a long look. "Something tells me that won't be necessary."

Rhys tightened his grip on Byron's other side. "I won't let that happen," he put in, and it was unclear whether he was warning the older Herald, or Byron himself.


End file.
